Say That It's Possible
by NeverMessWithTeddyBears
Summary: The first color he sees is pink. The first color she ever saw was blue. / Soulmate AU.
1. Phillip

**Say That It's Possible**

* * *

He writes his plays to be filled with colors.

Phillip's not sure if it's some form of masochism, though it might just be: making his life's work so reliant on something he can't see, something he doesn't experience, something that's still a myth to him utterly and completely that he can't wait to finally be able to discover. But he can't help himself. He lives for descriptions and metaphors, makes sure that the character of a jealous wife he's written throws a dark green vase at her husband's head, but also has the character of a young boy reunite with his mother, running to her safe, expecting arms, in a room with its walls painted green. His coming-of-age play is filled with variations of blue, the freedom of the ocean inspiring him throughout the writing process, being his main tool throughout the work.

He uses up all the different idioms he can think of; writes that _she talked a blue streak_ , that _the father recites purple passages_ , that _the lack of company will soon lead them to a brown study_.

He says her eyes were as brown as chocolate, that his hair was the color of the yellow sun, that the blood ran red down the boy's scraped knees and that the young-boy-now-a-man ran from his parents' house in a car the color of dark velvet.

Phillip thinks that, if he writes about colors enough, he might delude himself into thinking he can see them.

He's too afraid to admit he doesn't think he ever will.

* * *

His plays sell-out within hours, every night a packed house. For the latest one, the critics rave about his use of orange throughout the play: how the dark orange lights amplify the deceit, how its turn towards red send chills down your spine as if you yourself can feel the hidden desire of the characters.

Phillip watches the play opening night and feels nothing.

He never watches it again.

* * *

The night P.T. Barnum comes to him, his play focuses on the only two colors he could see, as if he's finally resigned himself in defeat to the world of black and white.

"I thought you were renowned for your use of color."

Phillip lifts his head up, narrows his eyes at P.T. in question. "I wouldn't know."

"Ah." P.T. smiles. It's not in pity, but it's also not mocking. Phillip appreciates it. "You're young. It'll come." he says. "Though, I can't blame you for your impatience. I've met my wife when I was very young, a child. I try not to lose sight of how privileged it made me." he continues and, God, does Phillip want to punch him, knowing the man wouldn't deserve it as he's far from gloating. Still, though, he can't stop the anger boiling in his veins.

(In his play, he would write that his character _started seeing red_. That _he was red with anger_. That _red anger boiled in his red veins_. That-

He stops himself.)

"Are you here to discuss the wonders of what I cannot see, or is there a more pressing matter you wanted to discuss?" he cuts Barnum off. "If not, there's a bottle of really expensive whiskey waiting for me with my name on it."

Phillip turns to leave, but P.T. stops him.

"Is that really how you like to spend your days? Whiskey and misery, and parties and plays?"

"Well, I'm not complaining." Phillip shrugs.

Barnum shakes his head. "That's no life."

"What do you suggest, then?"

P.T. smiles wide. "Join my show."

Phillip agrees for ten percent of the profits. It's not like he's got much to lose, anyways.

* * *

P.T. leads him behind the scenes of a show in progress, introducing him to all the different members of this weird makeshift family he's made for himself that aren't currently needed on stage. Phillip shakes hands and smiles politely, but soon finds that the smile he boasts around the people is anything but fake. He quickly starts enjoying the atmosphere, the energy of the crowd around him infecting him as well. Phillip can see why Barnum enjoys being a showman so much, and thinks he might just love it as well.

Still, there's a weird feeling that builds up in his chest as he's only able to view it all in solely black and white, the colors obviously present in the show escaping him. It makes him feel a sense of devastation and, as much as he wants to stay, he also wants to leave.

P.T. pauses in his steps and cuts himself of when he turns towards Phillip, as if he's felt the other man's mood turn sour. Maybe that's why he's as good at entertaining people as he is. Barnum reads him like a book and smiles softly but says nothing of the subject, instead leading him towards the balcony view of the show below. "The trapeze artists are enjoyable no matter the circumstance." he tries lightening the mood. "I consider myself quite a daring man, but seeing them still gives me shivers. The Wheelers surely are something."

Once they reach the balcony, Phillip looks around, seeing the two trapeze artists doing acrobatics he's never witnessed before, and he can feel the vibrations of the audience's loud reactions from his toes to the tips of his fingers.

He's sure he'll get addicted to this feeling. He's not sure, though, whether or not he'll come to regret it.

Suddenly, one of the trapeze artists is swinging towards the balcony and Phillip almost takes a step back, his instincts acting as if he'll get hit.

He looks up at the woman, their eyes locking and - suddenly - the world seems to stop.

Phillip could swear his heart is skipping beats and he can scarcely breathe. The moment feels like an eternity, them not breaking eye-contact, and he's compelled to take his hat off in a form of respect.

It's all so slow but also fast; the colors attack him without warning. It's as if a switch was turned and suddenly everything is brighter, warmer, fuller. His senses feel attacked and he's filled with emotions he can't even begin to describe.

All his mind seems to be able to form is the conscious thought that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and tears threaten to come to his eyes.

(He's sure he saw her breath hitch, her eyes widen, the smallest shiver go through her before she schools herself back into her motions.)

The moment passes, but Phillip doesn't dare move. All around him, where used to be black and white, there are now colors. He can see the bright colors of the different costumes in the circle, the sea of colors from the audience, the colored light surrounding him coming from places he can't pinpoint. A color sticks out to him, though, and all he can focus on is the red of the curtains and the red of the audience's clothes and the red balloons held by the children in the first rows; all he can focus on is _red red red_.

Finally, he finds his voice.

"Who's that?" Phillip asks.

Barnum smiles.

(The first color he sees is pink.)


	2. Anne

Her breath hitches, her eyes widen, the smallest shiver goes through her before she's able to school her emotions and go back to focusing on her movements, finishing her act.

But it's difficult - one thing the trapese never was for her - because this time it's as if her senses are heightened to the maximum level and she is being continuously attacked by the colors that surround her. The yellow of the podium almost makes her shut her eyes to its brightness, her purple outfit seems to constrict around her, when she moves her head the pink strands of her hair fall into her vision and she needs to contain a scream.

She wasn't prepared for this, she _wasn't_ -

W.D. takes her hand for the bow, but gives it an extra squeeze, and Anne thinks he could tell. He knows. It actually calms her, because as long as she has her brother, she can do anything.

She squeezes his hand back, takes a deep breath, and bows to the cheering audience that's a sea of different colors she never thought she'd see.

Then, she handles it.

* * *

(The first color she ever saw was blue.)

* * *

When she was a little girl, her mother would describe the colors of the world to her. She used to call it preparation, said that the unknown is often scary and that knowledge gives power. She taught Anne how to read and how to write and encouraged her children to do whatever it takes to lead a better life.

No matter what she was describing, what she was painting to Anne with her words, she always made it sound like colors were a blessing brought on by love that should be fought for. Anne had a hard time with that, sometimes; reconciling the idea that something that could bring her hardship and pain could also bring beauty and love.

"No matter what anybody tells you, Annie, the world isn't just black and white." she tells her as she does her hair with expert fingers. "Remember that."

Anne wishes her mother could be with her now.

* * *

Her eyes are always drawn to his face first, getting almost lost in the blue. Anne wonders if that's really how the sea would look.

"What is your act, Mr. Carlyle?"

He's nervous, she can tell, but he never stops looking at her. She tries to squish the hope in her chest: he looks wealthy. Hell, he even sounds wealthy. Wealthy and white and absolutely wrong for her.

"I don't have an act."

She finishes unwrapping her writs, flexes it to bring back feeling. Can hear the faintest sound of her knuckles cracking. "Everyone's got an act." she smirks and walks away, and _why is he still looking at her_ , and _why is she still looking at him_ , and _why is the blue of his eyes already the most beautiful color she will ever see_?

* * *

He approaches her at court carefully, as if he's worried she'd run away. She thinks about it, that's true, but it's not as if she'd have anywhere to go; especially when there are eyes following her everywhere that make her feel more self-conscious than usual.

Phillip's eyes, though - she doesn't mind his eyes on her. Even if she tries to.

"I can give you my jacket, if you're cold." he offers and she has to fight a smile. Anne's been trying to keep her distance for months now, albeit unsuccessfully and she know he can tell he's breaking down her barriers; that he has been ever since he assured her they'd either all go or no one will and when she laughed with more joy then than ever.

Anne shakes her head. "I'm not fighting the cold, Mr. Carlyle." she can tell how the light in his eyes dims the slightest at such a formal response. "I'm fighting the shame."

Whether she'd like to or not, she is aware of every slightest movement of Phillip's body, though she refuses to let sadness creep in when she sees his arm move to touch her but stop as if he's changed his mind. He does catch her look, though, and speaks, his voice firm and reassuring and only for her, just like that day when he announced that they've been invited by the Queen of England herself. "The woman I know has nothing to be ashamed about.", he says. "If anything, others should feel ashamed for not being worthy of her presence."

Hearing his words, she slowly lets go of her outfit that she's been trying to cover herself with as most as possible, and Anne can feel herself stand straighter by her brother's side, can feel him follow her lead. Phillip walks away with a smile, and she finds herself returning it.

* * *

 _ **"Take my hand, will you share this with me?"**_

Her heart stops beating the moment she can feel his fingers next to hers, shaking with nervousness as they come closer and closer, and she struggles to breathe. It's hard - to not move, to not look at him, to keep looking forward at the stage and listen to the song when all she can hear is him, all she can feel is him, all she wants is him.

The love she feels didn't surprise her. It couldn't - not when she knew what getting to see the colors meant, when she got to meet him and talk to him and fall into him. After keeping her feelings locked and her barriers up for so long, she decides to let them down just once, just to see what will happen, just to let herself be consumed with the strongest feeling she's ever felt for anyone.

So she reaches out her little finger, feels his skin against her own and has to contain a gasp, has to remind her body to breathe or else she'll faint with the intensity of the emotions coarsing through her.

 _ **"Towers of gold are still too little, these hands could hold the world but it'll never be enough,"**_

He moves his hands so that they meet completely, fingers entwining and fitting perfectly, as if their hands were made to hold each other's for the rest of their lives.

Anne thinks they've both started breathing again, together, in sync, and she can barely hear the music now, can only hear her heart beating so hard it threatens to burst out of her chest, and as it deafens her ears she feels like she could hear Phillip's as well, as they unite to form the most beautiful melody.

She closes her eyes to listen to it, feels his name fall off her lips in the softest, smallest sound possible, and somehow she knows he could hear it.

 _ **"These hands could hold the world but it'll never be enough,"**_

Suddenly, he lets her hand go.

And she turns to him, and sees him, and remembers that he is wealthy, and he is white, and he is wrong for her.

So Anne takes a deep breath, composes herself, and leaves.

And when, for the first time, she doesn't feel his eyes follow her, she doesn't break.

She handles it. Because she won't let him make her feel ashamed.

 _ **"Never be enough, for me."**_

* * *

"I wasn't sure you'd come if I asked."

He's been trying to make it up to her for weeks now; he's apologised, and explained his strained relationship with his parents, and how he could never live up to the legacy of his last name in his father's eyes no matter how hard he tries, and he's brought her flowers and chocolates and left her cards, but she tried her hardest not to be swayed, to hold her ground.

But when he's standing there, looking at her with fear of rejection mixed with the love he has for her, she can't find it in herself to send him away. Instead, she rests her hands on his elbow and they head to the stairs.

"I've always wanted to go to the theater." she says.

She should've known the night started out way too good to be true.

(She doesn't end up seeing the play.)

* * *

She could feel that he looked after her, and she knew he'd come looking. Anne's never too hard to find, especially when there are emotions involved. Practicing her trapese always clears her head, helps her sort out her thoughts and compose herself. When she's in the air, she feels like she's a bird, flying free wherever she wants.

"They're small-minded people. Why do you care what they think?"

"It's not just them." she tells him. Let's him know he doesn't understand and never completely will. Because he'll never have anyone look at him the way his parents looked at her. Will never understand the shame she's meant to feel for simply living and taking up space.

He doesn't give up, doesn't let the subject go. He's let her leave once, let her down once, and he won't ever do it again. Ever.

"It's written in the stars, Anne." he tells her, raising a hand to gently cup her cheek as the other hold her waist. He's breathing hard, having tried to keep up with her on the rope, but his voice is strong. Their foreheads touch. "I saw you, and colors came to me. We were made to be each other's. To hell what anyone else thinks."

She shakes her head, moves his hand from her waist, and leaves.

It's the hardest thing she's ever done.

* * *

The flames are a mix of red and orange and yellow and every color in between and the fear she feels is one she's never felt before.

She runs into her brothers arms, but can hear everyone calling for Phillip and no matter where she looks, she can't find him. "Phillip? Where's Phillip? W.D.-", she turns to her brother. "Where is he?"

Simply by the look on his face, she knows.

"No-"

"We thought you were still inside, he-"

"No!"

Before she's able to scream and run into the building herself, P.T. is already gone. Time slows, moments feeling like hours, until Barnum is finally out of the building with Phillip in his arms. When he lays Phillip on the ground, she almost falls down herself, held up only by her brother's arms.

The flames are a mix of red and orange and yellow and every color in between, but that doesn't scare her anymore. Now, it comforts her. Because as long as she sees the colors, he lives.

* * *

In the hospital, she holds his hands to her chest, lets him feel her heart beating, lets him know she's there and she's not leaving. She kisses his hands, touches her cheeks, whispers " _Written in the stars._ " through choked up tears. " _We were made to be each other's._ "

 _The first time she saw him, colors came to her._

She doesn't sleep. Her brother says nothing, but Anne knows he's worried. But she barely allows herself to blink, too scared that when she opens her eyes again, the colors will be gone and he will be dead and she will be left to live her life in shades of gray.

It's not until she feels his fingers move and sees his eyes open that she can finally breathe again.

"You're here." he whispers, his voice still hoarse from the smoak.

She kisses him and never plans on letting go.

* * *

 _ **"Because everything you want is right in front of you, and you see the impossible is coming true, and the walls can't stop us now."**_


End file.
